Chase the Shadows Away
by fubibliophile
Summary: Mafia AU. Toris has worked for Ivan Braginski for as long as he can remember, and never once took a chance. But when his work threatens the closest thing to a normal relationship he has, he figures that maybe saving Feliks might be worth the risk.
1. As I Look Around the Room

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I also do not own the song "Gimme Gimme Gimme" by Abba, from which the chapter titles and story title are taken

* * *

Toris stood in front of a small boutique in Moscow's west Kutuzovsky Prospekt, brushing sleep out of his eyes and wishing he were there for any reason other than 'business.' While orders-especially ones issued by Ivan Braginski-were always to be followed, Toris couldn't help but despise every minute he spent carrying them out.

He glanced up at the storefront. Hung above the doorway situated between the color-filled display cases was a sign. In freshly redone hues of orange, yellow, and pink, were the words _The Phoenix Nest. _He raised his eyebrow, wondering why a boutique had a name more appropriate for a bar.

Toris shoved a hand in his coat pocket, scrounging for the scrap of paper he had shoved there before. His fingers finally brushing the evasive sheet, he breathed deeply, and withdrew it. There, in Ivan's large, childish print, was the name of the store he was looking for. The titles were, unfortunately, identical.

With a huff of agitation, he exhaled through his teeth and pushed on the door hoping it was locked. Much to his chagrin, it swung easily inward. A bell tinkled cheerily, and he glanced around, taking in the sea of garments in every color, cut, and fabric imaginable. He gawked for a moment, only to be wrenched away from his thoughts by an idle voice. "The men's stuff is over there, if that's what'cha need. Otherwise, you should probably talk to me, okay?"

Somewhat bashfully, Toris pried his eyes away from the variegated garments, finally realizing he had company seated at the cash register, observing him with interest. She regarded him with half-lidded green eyes, absently tugging on the ends of her chin-length hair. Quickly, he glanced at the nametag around the cashier's neck, which proclaimed the person's name to be Feliks, a distinctly masculine name. He looked back up at her, no, him, noticing with embarrassment the flat chest and Adam's apple. He flushed internally at his own mistake. "I'm going to have something custom made. Could I talk to the manager?"

Feliks peeled himself out of his chair, tugging at a loose jersey that was more than likely taken from the small boutique's inventory. "That's me!" He seemed to brighten immediately at the mention of his newfound authority. "So, whad'ya need?" He grabbed a sketchbook from the desk, its pattern surprisingly plain and simple for such a lively person. His eyes seemed to glow at the thought of the sum handmade suits raked in.

Toris took a moment to observe the man he would be dealing with. He was slightly built, flamboyantly dressed, with deliberately dramatic posture and eyes full of nervous energy that flew to every part of the room that wasn't Toris. He seemed flashy but harmless, and Toris almost didn't take a second glance. Then, he noticed the puckered line trailing from the corner of his eye to his hairline, partially obscured by hanging hair but still visible to anyone trained to observe. His observational prowess was probably the only reason he'd made it this far.

Eyes flickering from pink scar to green iris, he swallowed his suspicion over the lack of eye contact Feliks provided and quickly voiced his request. "Fitted grey suit. Make it appropriate for winter, please."

"No color?"

"No color."

Feliks pursed his lips. "You sure?"

"Positive."

"Why're you here then? Color's what I do." He shrugged "Well, business is business."

He flipped open the sketchpad, grabbing a pack of colored pencils, his 2B already flying across the page. "Can the tie at least have color?"

"Sure."

Toris gave the room a brief gander, waiting for Feliks to finish. His eyes flashed to each of the store's four corners, and once more, the tiny space seemed to smother him with color. "You made all of these?"

Feliks didn't even bother to raise his head form his sketchbook, still utterly engrossed in his work. "Totally. It's, like, my place. Well, it's my place now anyway."

His attention returned to the paper and Toris's to the floor, wondering when he ought to reveal his true intent. The time passed silently, and Feliks's head shot up after only ten minutes. "Done!"

Despite himself, Toris found his interest piqued. "May I see?"

"Nope. I've gotta take your measurements first."

He cautiously placed his sketchbook face-down on the desk, and then began to rummage through its many drawers.

Toris cringed. While the man's mannerisms were obnoxious, he also seemed…not quite genuine, though enthusiastic, to say the least. He was definitely not on the top of Toris's 'people-whose-lives-I'd like-to-ruin' list, which, thanks to his forgiving disposition, was rather barren.

Feliks suddenly arose, measuring tape clutched triumphantly in his hand. "Before you go, I'm gonna need your measurements, 'kay?"

"You already said that."

Feliks scoffed. "Well, you looked like you were spaced out or something. Just wanted to make sure you weren't ignoring me or anything."

Internally, Toris rolled his eyes at Feliks's overly defensive behavior.

He removed his coat and spread his arms as Feliks lengthened the tape to coincide with his shoulders, carefully noting down the measurements. "By the way, I need to know your name to, like, label your order."

Feliks stretched the tape down Toris's inseam, and he squirmed with discomfort. "Toris Laurinaitis"

Feliks dropped the tape and grabbed a pencil. "Long name. How d'ya spell it?"

"L-a-u-r-i-n-a-i-t-i-s"

He scratched it down, muttering under his breath. "Jeez, you must've failed first grade like three times."

Toris chose to pretend he hadn't heard.

He grasped the tape again, wrapping it around Toris's neck. As he tried not to breathe too deeply, he found himself attempting to look into Feliks's eyes. They were not the enthusiastic, constantly darting eyes he had witnessed moments ago, but focused and probing, though they still wouldn't meet his. Somehow, they looked now far more genuine, cutting off his breath. Suddenly, the tape went taut. "I know what you are, so drop the act and tell me why you're here."

Toris froze, as startled by the proclamation as he was by Feliks's sudden change in attitude, and the tape around his neck loosened. Feliks stared warily at Toris's hands as he lifted them slowly over his head in a gesture of surrender. "Let's sit down."

Toris rubbed his neck, still shaken. He appeared to have misjudged Feliks entirely, and he hated himself for his ignorance. He stared at Feliks, reassessing him, and Feliks glanced quickly towards his desk, eyes darting away from Toris's own as his voice regained his airheaded lilt. "Kay, I've got all your basic measurements and stuff anyway."

They both sat down, Feliks still squinting at him suspiciously. Toris breathed deeply, an uncomfortable smile plastered firmly across his visage. "You know who I am, correct?"

"Kinda."

"Okay, I can work with that. I work for the man who basically runs Moscow."

"I'm gonna guess you aren't talking about Putin."

"You guessed right. He's… "

"Bratva, right?"

"Yeah."

Feliks shrank back into his seat. "If you're here to kill me, that's totally not cool with me."

Toris blinked, not entirely shocked, but repulsed by the idea. Thinking fast, he tried to reassure Feliks, who was groping around for the surprisingly dangerous tape. He had a switchblade in his pocket, and would be distraught if he had to use it. " No! No, no, no. I'm just here to collect a little…business fee. For small boutiques, the payment is usually only 15,000 rubles per month."

"Only? Do you know how much I make a month?"

Toris went on. "However, this establishment's previous owner missed almost a year's worth of payments, and eventually his grace period ran out."

Feliks flinched. "I knew he didn't have a heart attack!" He paused, bracing himself. "So, how much?'

Toris smiled sympathetically, wishing he didn't have to say. "This month comes to a total of…120,000 rubles."

Feliks blinked twice, shook the panicked expression off his face, and grimaced childishly. "Oh, ew."

All of his seriousness dissipated and he chortled to himself, snorting in-between giggles and trying not to inhale his cornsilk hair. Toris watched, smiling even as he noticed how forced his cackles sounded, or how their eyes still refused to meet. Despite these observations, Toris decided to maintain the pseudo-light atmosphere. "I still want that suit, though."

Feliks nodded vigorously, reaching for his measuring tape. "Yep, got it." He grinned sheepishly. "You know how I said I had all your basic measurements? Teeny-tiny lie. So I'm gonna need you to, like, stand up and stand still for a few, 'kay?"

Toris complied and stretched his arms out as Feliks measured his arm span. "Thanks, got that."

As Feliks jotted numbers down on the corner of the sketch, Toris thought over his words, or rather the way he said them. "You…you have an accent."

"Yeah. Polish, right? I grew up there, so no duh."

"Really? I grew up in Moscow, though my parents were from Vilnius. Lithuania and Poland are near each other, right?"

"Right. Lithuania is, like, right above Poland."

As Feliks continued to measure him, they chatted, or rather Feliks chatted and Toris listened. "So yeah, the early years were all spent down in Warsaw, but I've always loved clothes, so I came here to make a name for myself. Which I still haven't quite done yet, but at least people are like, wearing my stuff. And they totally come back, too! You've got no idea how hard it is to get people to do that. I mean…"

Over years of dealing with the megalomaniacs that were typically drawn to organized crime, Toris had grown quite adept at tuning people out, and was very surprised to find himself listening to the man's every word, and watching his every move.

Though Feliks would seem quite relaxed to the average observer, Toris was far from average, noticing his introverted posture and tense limbs, all hints that he was hiding something.

"…though of course the guy hired me. I mean, how could he not? I've got talent! He was an ass, though, making me run all his errands and stuff. Can you imagine that?"

Toris chuckled wryly. "Actually, you just pretty much just described my job."

Feliks's eyes widened and Toris could see him mentally put his foot in his mouth. "Um, not that that's a gross job or anything, 'cause it's totally not!'

He smiled uncomfortably, eyes fixed even further away from Toris's than usual. "So, I've got the measurements. Wanna see your fabulous new suit?"

Toris raised an eyebrow at the sudden subject change, but obliged. He leaned over the desk, half expecting something ridiculous. Feliks opened the sketchbook, though the actual work was not yet visible. "Can I get a drumroll, please?"

He paused expectantly. "Drumroll?"

Toris sighed, but, being used to dealing with eccentrics, indulged the designer, tapping out a drilling rhythm on the desk. Dramatically, Feliks turned the sketchpad. Toris strained for a glimpse, and, when he finally caught one, found himself underwhelmed.

It was a grey suit, like all other suits before. He glanced up at Feliks's glowing face, and tried to feign enthusiasm.

As he peered back down at the sheet, seeing the sketch more fully, he began to notice things. He noticed little things, like how the tie wasn't just plain green as he had thought before but covered with barely palpable designs stitched in gold, or how the trousers took on the tailored look of the skinny suit without emitting the immature vibe such suits often gave. Now that he was looking closer, the suit wasn't even one shade of grey, but a multitude of polychromatic threads woven to form a large work.

He drew back, wondering how Feliks had imbued the work with so many minute factors in such a brief period of time. Once more, he let his eyes drag over the page, observing how the details worked to form something bigger, something greater than the sum of their parts. "It's beautiful."

Feliks grinned, preening. "Thanks."

Toris nodded and glanced down at his watch. He had been there for almost twice as long as the hour he had been allotted. "I'm nearly two hours late! The suit is wonderful, though. I'll pick it up along with the payment."

"Don'cha wanna know how much it costs?"

Toris shrugged unthinkingly. It was Ivan who'd pay for the suit anyway, and he was tired of all the talk of money. "No, I'm fine."

Feliks eyed him with a combination of wariness and awe. Just having a suit custom-made was ostentatious, but to disregard the price was absurd.

In an attempt to dispel the discomfort on Feliks's face and put an end to their meeting, he extended his hand to Feliks, who shook it firmly. Though his hands looked smooth and delicate, Toris could feel the man's calloused flesh against his own skin, no doubt hardened by making the endless supply of garments the store seemed to possess.

He went to extract his hand from the viselike grip, only to be stopped by Feliks. He glanced away from their intertwined hand, puzzled, and was startled to find Feliks looking back.

For the first time, their eyes met, and there was something in Feliks's gaze that froze Toris where he stood. Still maintaining their eye contact, Feliks spoke, and Toris could feel the smaller man's hand shaking.

"I don't have the money."

* * *

Only two mornings later, Toris returned, bearing coffees and good news.

Pushing the front door open with his forearm, he swigged from his own coffee and glanced around, looking for Feliks. Unable to find him, he called out his name and, receiving no response, proceeded to lean against the edge of the desk, fully prepared to wait.

Glancing down at the mess of paper that was Feliks's desk, he supposed that it would be rational to just write a note. It was so rare for him to bring anything other than woe to people and he desperately wanted to talk to Feliks face-to-face, and so, he silently damned his logic and decided to continue to wait.

He was about to give up on his one chance at a smile and some pleasant banter and write a note when Feliks came waltzing out of a small backdoor, a fully-clothed mannequin under his arm and a tired but cheery expression on his face.

The second their eyes met, Feliks's entire posture changed. He lost his relaxed slouch, and his loping gait tightened into stiff, robotic footsteps. Nervously, he glanced up at Toris, speaking in a tone that seemed too forced to be casual. "I've only got, like, your suit's jacket done. If you come back in a few days, maybe…"

When Toris didn't turn to leave, Feliks continued, fear apparent in every line of his body, yet still standing firm, looking resolutely at something to the left of Toris's head. "…maybe I'll have the suit ready."

He looked back at Toris, eyes terrified, and once again the eye contact froze Toris where he stood. "The money won't be ready for a long time, though. Like, on infinite hold long time."

Toris handed him a coffee and grinned at his bewildered expression. "That's the thing; I've got good news."

Feliks's eyes lit up with fresh hope. "It was all a mistake and your boss owes me 20,000 rubles instead? 'Cause that would be amazing."

Toris's grin dimmed a few watts, yet seemed just as joyful. "No, I'm not that good. I did, however, get my boss to remove 5,000 rubles off your debt…" Feliks gasped "…if you are willing to give anything free of charge to anyone who says they're from Braginski."

Feliks didn't even contemplate rejection, but grasped Toris's hand in his own and shook it vigorously, despite the fact that Toris had never offered a handshake in the first place. "It's a deal!"

He plopped back down, gesturing giddily for Toris to sit across from him. "Thanks! That'll be a huge help." Here he hesitated, the ecstatic glow peeling away to reveal suspicion.

"Now, how did this deal come about?"

Toris had hoped that this line of questioning would be obscured by bliss and never arrive. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Feliks continued to peer at him, suspicions clearly not annulled. "Seriously, how?" He persisted.

Wearily, Toris gave in. "I asked Ivan for a small favor." _He had gotten on his knees and pleaded until his pride was spent and Ivan had granted his request just to be rid of him._

"Why?"

That simple question even Toris himself didn't quite know the answer to.

"Well…" he started, grabbing a cheap ballpoint off the desk and tapping it slowly, anything to prolong the answer, to find a way around the question without sparking a panic.

Feliks looked impatient, and Toris relented. "…you seem like a nice guy."

Feliks remained skeptical. "And?'

The tapping's tempo increased. "I really don't want to kill you." He glanced away. "Or anyone, for that matter."

"You'd have to kill me?"

"Yes. Can we not talk about it? It's a very real possibility."

There was no appropriate way for Feliks to respond to that, and so the tension remained thick in the air, seeming just as out of place as their talk of death in the whimsical room.

Abruptly, Feliks nodded a silent thank you. It wasn't the utter bliss he had been hoping for, but Toris supposed it would have to do as he watched the tautness ease from the Pole's shoulders.

They remained there for a moment, slurping their coffees appreciatively, and Toris pretended almost wistfully that that he was just an ordinary guy with an ordinary job, relaxing with a man he had met more than once, and probably would never have to harm.

Draining the last drop, he glanced up, rousing himself from pointless daydreams and getting straight back to business. "How much will my suit cost?"

Immediately, Feliks stiffened up the way he always seemed to, as though he was expecting to be struck at any minute. "10,000 rubles. That suit's not, like, part of our little deal, is it? 'Cause I need that money."

Toris sighed, wondering if Feliks was always flighty, or if Toris just put him on edge. Either way, it saddened him. "No, that suit was ordered pre-deal. " He switched topics. "How much do you make a month?"

" 100,000. Yeah, it sounds like a lot, but most of it goes to, like, leasing the place and providing it with electricity, as well as materials and my basic living expenses. Why?"

"I just wanted to see how much money we had left to go."

Feliks raised an eyebrow, confused. "We?"

"Yeah, we. I'll be helping you out, when I can."

Feliks didn't respond, just stared at him, unsure of what to do or say. He spun on his heel, striding towards the door from which he came. "I suppose I, like, owe you a sneak-peek of suit, don't I." He chirped. "Wait right there while I go get it."

Toris watched him go. It felt almost odd, speaking in more than the formal orders from Ivan he so often quoted or the clipped sentences intermingled with awkward silences he occasionally exchanged with Eduard or Natalya. Though he had more than ample time to observe Feliks, the man remained an riddle, a many layered, continuously morphing thing that itched at the inside of Toris's brain, begging to be solved. He knew that the ditz-like persona was just that, a persona, but when it was peeled away, he couldn't tell what lay beneath.

Feliks was clearly cautious and quite a bit cleverer than Toris had originally given him credit for, yet he showed no consistency, constantly shifting between an edgy caged animal and a hardened, prideful young man with pleading eyes. Unused to such confusion, Toris found himself fascinated and strangely drawn into the enigma that was the eccentric Pole.

The aforementioned Pole emerged and raised a single finger silently gesturing for Toris to join him. Equally silent, Toris obliged and Feliks, still solemn, handed him the jacket, which he promptly slid into.

It flowed onto his body like silk, though the fabric was sturdy and fitted. It reminded him somehow of a Kevlar vest, pliable, yet strong. '_It won't be much help when it comes to stopping a bullet, though'_ he thought.

Feliks gave him a slow once-over and smiled. "I'm brilliant."

Toris tugged at the jacket, his mind flowing with the threads as they cupped his body, interweaving with thousands of others similar but not identical to themselves. "You are."

Feliks stuck his tongue out and pretended to blush. "Oh, you flatter me so!" he cooed in a faux falsetto, cackling madly at his own hyperbole. To Toris, it seemed that the man could not spend a day without dissolving into hysterics at least once. As he chuckled along, he found he didn't mind a bit.

Once the laughter just wouldn't come, Feliks grabbed for the jacket. "You can't wear it until I'm, like, done with the whole thing, 'kay?"

With more than a little remorse, Toris pried the suit jacket from his form and grudgingly returned it to the designer, who smirked at his expression of loss. With even less enthusiasm, he bid Feliks farewell, pledging to help him raise the remaining sum, and trotted down the streetlamp-lit Kutuzovsky Prospekt, bracing himself for Ivan's wrath.

He glanced down at his watch and flinched. He was almost five hours late.

* * *

Notes: Bratva=Russian term for mafia.

Rubles= Russian currency.

So…Cliffhanger! I've been working on the outlines for this whole big project for months, and it's been eating my life. You have no idea how glad I am to have this chapter out. This will be part of a series, though each story will be able to be read on its own. Thank you for the support, everyone who read Maple Street, Kay, my fabulously honest beta, and especially JustPlaincarl, whose life goal is to be my number one reviewer, and to whom this story is dedicated. Reviews motivate me!

-fanningfireflies


	2. It Makes Me so Depressed

Toris stared at his calendar, numbers flying through his mind as he calculated exactly how much money they'd need per day in order to make 30,000 rubles in two weeks. At some point over the last two weeks, it had gone from "Feliks" to "Feliks and me" to "Us" in Toris's mind. It just seemed more natural. Glancing once again at the date circled in red, Toris pulled out his iPhone and texted Feliks.

Two_ weeks, 30,000 RUB left to go. Any ideas?_

Almost immediately, Feliks responded.

_nope ;p store closed 4 2 hrs cuz of repairs nxt door. Wanna hang out?_

_Sure! I've got a gift card to Etazh. Up for lunch?_

_Hellz ya! thx 2 ur boss, im down 2 1 meal a day. not cool._

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, Toris smiled, the 30,000 ruble burden over his head temporarily brushed aside at the thought of seeing Feliks. Whenever they met up, anything that wasn't blonde hair, puppy-dog eyes and a complete sense of chaos just seemed to disappear from Toris's mind. He hummed as he put his shoes on, wondering if this was what it was like to have a friend, not just an ally or a coworker.

No matter what it was, it was making him happier than he had been for years, and also quite a bit more terrified. Now, he had something to lose.

Yanking his winter coat off of its hook, he left his flat, heading for the metro. Ivan had offered him a car when he first took the job, but he had refused, proclaiming that he'd have no use for it in Moscow's traffic. He was regretting that decision now; he could have sold it.

Arriving at the eternally cramped metro, Toris wandered through the ornately decorated stations and waited for his train to arrive. When it did, he crammed himself into one of the crowded cars, trying not to bump into anyone.

He allowed the crowd to jostle him as the train began to move, eyes flashing from one passenger to the next as he looked for telltale bulges under jackets or darting, bloodshot eyes or the flash of a needle. Crowded areas like subways made murder far too easy. When he was sure of the train car's relative safety, he relaxed into his usual game as he waited for his stop.

He typically pondered a wide variety of subjects, but now his mind always drifted back to one topic. He wondered about Feliks; about where his scar was from; about his store's strange name; about who he was. He had known Feliks for two weeks now, and still the Pole remained an enigma, the solution to the riddle just out of reach.

Before he knew it, the train had arrived at Lubyanka Station and Toris was struggling through the crowd of people, trying to make it off the metro and avoid the wrath of his fellow Muscovites while keeping his phone and wallet pressed flush against his body. He tried to hold his breath until he was out on the street. He'd never succeeded, but the less he breathed, the less noticeable he was.

He walked towards Etazh, looking for Feliks's signature lime-green coat. When he saw it approaching, he waved, violating his strict 'unseen, unheard, unharmed' policy. The jacket sped up. "Hey, Toris!"

The jacket's owner took a flying leap at him, stopping just a few inches short of a head-on collision. Toris smiled down at him. "Hello, Feliks. Want to grab that lunch?"

Feliks nodded eagerly. "Yep! You have the gift card, right? 'Cause I didn't bring any cash."

Toris patted his pocket. "Don't worry."

They strolled off towards the café, Feliks babbling rapidly about the newest happenings. "So, ya know miracle lady? The wacko with the money? Well, she, like, might come back to _The Phoenix Nest_ for another order! I'm starting to get the hang of this store thing."

Toris smiled and congratulated him, then paused, a question probing his mind. "Why's your store called that? _The Phoenix Nest_, I mean. It's an unusual name."

Feliks glanced up, surprised at this line of questioning. "Well, rebirth and stuff. Like, being reborn in new 'feathers' ya know?" He kicked a stone with a bejeweled boot, avoiding eye contact like the plague.

"And?" Toris pressed.

"And personal shit." He lashed out at the rock like it had insulted him, and Toris decided to drop the subject.

They arrived and were seated by a hassled waitress with a mane of wild red hair and a mole on her upper lip. The restaurant was half full, and its patrons were some of the least dangerous in all of Moscow. With its bright, artificial light, red pleather booths, and cheap food, it was one of Toris's favorite spots. Feliks began to pour over the menu, making sure it wouldn't cost a cent over the card's value. Toris, already having decided on the cheapest item on the list, watched Feliks squint, mouth pursed comically as he ran numbers through his head. His posture was relaxed, and Toris found himself relaxing as well, as though his life was devoid of guns and money and all of that other Bratva bullshit.

His eyes fell across the scar again. He thought about asking Feliks where he'd gotten it, but quickly thought better. Feliks seemed to object quite harshly to personal questions.

They placed their orders and continued to sit in a pleasant silence. "So, as I believe I mentioned earlier, we have 30,000 rubles to go and only two weeks left to do it. " He groaned. "It's a miracle we even got this far."

Feliks nodded uncomfortably. "Yeah, if it weren't for you and that wacky lady with the costume party, I'd be at nothing." He paused, seeming to open up a little more. "Speaking of that wacky lady, I've gotta, like, whip up a costume for her by the end of next month. She wants American 20's style, so I'm gonna watch _The Great Gatsby_ on loop until inspiration hits. Wanna join?"

Though he should refuse and work instead on the money problem, he agreed before he even realized what he was doing. "Sure."

Feliks pumped his fist. "Cool! You can, like, try on what I've got of your suit too, if you have the time. See if it needs adjustment or anything."

Toris nodded, and halfheartedly tried to steer the conversation back on track. "Sounds nice." And it did, but Toris was worried, and they needed money. "Now, the 30,000 rubles…"

Feliks looked at him, eyes tired. "I'll get 'em. We'll figure something out. But can we please just not talk about it right now? Just for an hour."

Feliks's eyes were tired from constant stress, and begging for Toris to understand. Toris understood all too well; since he'd met Feliks, numbers had dominated his every waking hour, numbers that could change both their lives. Before he knew it, he too was scrimping and pinching for extra change, trying to help out a friend who was barely more than a stranger. "Talk away."

Feliks did, only pausing to accept food from the frazzled waitress when she scurried over or for the occasional breath of air. Toris marveled over the fact that he could speak with his mouth full and not choke. He couldn't care less about Feliks's snooty customers, but there was something so open about the way Feliks ranted that he couldn't look away. It definitely wasn't graceful, pretty, or any of the traits that usually caught Toris's eye, what with Feliks blabbing a mile a minute with his mouth full of food, but he found it pleasant to watch nonetheless. Feliks was a very active talker, his pale hands flitting about like doves and sculpting his story out of the air as his eyes glowed with enthusiasm. Toris settled further back into his seat and folded his hands in his lap. When Feliks spoke, he was hypnotizing. "…And then she compared me to Alexander McQueen! I practically died, like, right there."

Toris smiled contentedly. He was learning nothing from this conversation and in that was all the appeal. He didn't even have to speak, just sit there and let the light that was Feliks wash over him and take away his troubles.

He was so preoccupied with just watching that he failed to notice that Feliks had stopped talking. Feliks kicked him lightly in the shin. "Ah-hem?"

Toris flushed, wondering how Feliks always managed to catch him off guard. "What?"

Feliks rolled his eyes. "I_ said_ sorry for being such a bitch earlier."

Toris was taken aback; he hadn't pegged Feliks as the type to apologize for his own behavior, much less his completely inoffensive moments of defensiveness. "I didn't even notice."

"I mean, I kinda totally hate personal questions, but I also kinda totally owe you one. Or two. Or 120,000 to be exact."

He chuckled nervously, and Toris shrugged. "It's no big deal."

Feliks grinned at this. "Ah, but it is. I can tell. I can see it in your nosy eyes. You are, like, such a busybody."

Toris had never heard himself described as such. "I'm not a busybody; I just care about what's happening."

"So…a busybody."

Toris glared at him, and Feliks continued talking. "So I'll, like, tell you tomorrow, if you aren't too busy saving someone else's ass."

"Trust me, I'm not too busy. I don't do this for everyone, you know."

He glanced over, and saw the waitress glaring at them. "Now, let's go before we're kicked out."

They left the card on the table, along with the three rubles it hadn't covered, and left for _The Phoenix Nest,_ giggling like schoolgirls over something Feliks said and huddling for warmth_. _Toris counted the puffs of fog leaving their mouths, and Feliks stared at the ground, leaping over every little crack in the sidewalk. Awkwardly, his gaze shifted towards Toris. "So, I'm special?"

It took Toris a moment to figure out he was referring to their prior conversation. "In a sense, yes."

Feliks grinned. "You are, like, the awesomest friend ever."

Toris smiled, and they continued their walk in blissful silence. Suddenly, Feliks stopped. "Because of my mother."

Toris blinked, completely lost. "Huh?"

"I named the store because of my mother. Whenever my dad decided to be an ass, she'd call me a phoenix and tell me to rise up out of the ashes. Corny, I know. Either way, phoenixes live in nests, I live in a store, so if I'm a phoenix, that makes the store my nest. Thus, _The Phoenix Nest_ was born."

He kicked a rock again, looking pointedly away and awaiting Toris's reaction. Toris's mind went into overdrive, adding a value to one of the many variables that made up the equation that was Feliks. He was still eons away from anything like a definitive answer, but it was a start. "Thank you."

Feliks looked at him with a mixture of appreciation and coyness. "I don't do this for everyone."

He laughed at his own joke, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. Toris joined in, chuckling as his own words were thrown back in his face.

As if from nowhere, his brain suddenly noticed how pretty Feliks was when he laughed, all of his cares faded away into an all-consuming bliss as his hair swung loosely about his flushed cheeks. He smiled, and tried to burn the image into his mind as they continued to walk to Feliks's place.

He wished he could bottle this afternoon, store Feliks's ridiculous shiny boots and contagious laugh and the cold autumn air somewhere safe where he could just look at them and feel them on rainy, lonely days. He couldn't let Ivan touch this with his big, clumsy hands, couldn't let him take this feeling away. He needed money. Ivan'd show neither of them mercy If he didn't get it.

As he had taken to doing when money or Ivan crossed his mind, he rubbed at an old scar, directly between two of his ribs. They'd arrived, and Feliks reached up to ruffle Toris's hair in a gesture so intimate Toris didn't know what to make of it. "Tomorrow evening, say, like, 10, _The Great Gatsby_ will be playing, and you will be there as my first real guest." He poked Toris in the chest playfully. "You don't have a choice."

It wouldn't have mattered if he had been given one, he would go wherever Feliks invited him. "I'll be there."

Feliks waved him off, and, as he departed, Toris wondered why Feliks never had anyone over before. He probably froze up the second someone asked to come over, or was too embarrassed to admit that he lived in a little back room, or something equally Feliks-like.

He smiled to himself as he walked towards the metro, wondering when old American movies had started to sound so fun.

* * *

Toris arrived in front of _The Phoenix Nest_ ten minutes late, a smile and a black eye decorating his visage. Feliks, who was awaiting him at the door, gave the fresh bruise a curious stare, but he resisted the urge to comment, instead urging Toris inside. "C'mon in! I'll be with you in like a minute."

As he set about locking the door, Toris took the opportunity to once again pour over the clothing, meandering between racks and admiring fully outfitted mannequins.

When he'd first met Feliks, he couldn't believe that the flighty man could find the patience for anything so detail-intensive. Now, having gotten to know the man, he expected nothing less. Feliks flicked off the lights, gesturing for Toris to join him. Instead, Toris stopped, staring out the immense glass displays at the emptying street.

The sky was dark, and pedestrians flitted along the sidewalks in silence, their paths lit only by worn-out lamps, storefronts, and the few stars whose light was strong enough to compete with those of Moscow. One by one, the storefront lights went out, and the street's travelers splashed through puddles of lamplight to far-off destinations until the street was empty. The lamps shone like beacons, highlighting every crack in the road and leaving rivers of black between their domains, and above them an even greater black expanse. Toris couldn't tear his eyes away.

Next to him, Feliks breathed, and Toris turned, surprised to see him standing there. "It's so gorgeous."

Toris shrugged, trying to act like he wasn't spellbound. "You see it every night."

"But I never thought to look."

Toris could find no answer, and instead stared at Feliks's profile, highlighted by pale moonlight, until the designer spoke again. "I have an idea."

He grabbed Toris's wrist, yanking him towards the backroom, and Toris couldn't help but flinch. Feliks was not one for casual contact, and every time he allowed it, it was positively electrifying.

Feliks turned the knob and the door creaked open. Behind it lay a room half as large and twice as crowded as the storefront. It was a dark, windowless space lit only by a single lamp.

In one corner was a battered, clearly secondhand couch in a floral print, sandwiching a nightstand topped by a microwave to the wall. Adjacent to the couch sat a desk on which the lamp rested, along with a sewing machine and sketching materials bathed in its harsh light.

As they had done many times before, they both flopped down, Feliks at the desk and Toris on the couch. Feliks yanked out a sketchpad and began to draw.

His face was the epitome of seriousness, eyebrows pinched together and lower lip between his teeth as his eyes focused like laser-points on his work. He hunched over his work, the shiny pink flesh of his scar glinting dully against his face as he sketched. Toris watched, riveted.

Half of him felt that he shouldn't be there, though Feliks clearly did not object and couldn't do much about it if he did. And the other half of him, it gained some strange, voyeuristic pleasure form watching something so utterly simplistic and free of pretenses.

Settling further into the couch, Toris decided Feliks owed him one anyway, and continued watching.

When Feliks finished, he gestured for Toris to join him. Leaning over Feliks, Toris glimpsed the drawing. Over the weeks, he had grown accustomed to the premade clothes outside, but the rare sketches took his breath away, and this was certainly no exception.

It was a flapper dress in a rich navy, with sequins of a matching color coating the fabric and dangling off the ends. Dotted randomly about the dress were sequins of a new shade, pale gold and widely spaced, that drew the eye in a steady line from hip to bust to collarbone to shoulder and left the observer disoriented. Toris could only imagine what the dress would look like in motion, the light playing dramatically across the wearer's body the same way it played over the dark streets.

"I think you might be a genius."

Feliks grinned. "I think you might be right. I guess that makes you a genius-muse then, 'cause this brilliance seems to pop up around you. Usually I, like, sit on my ass for hours with no new ideas."

Toris thought about this; it didn't sound like Feliks. "Really?"

Feliks nodded and Toris went to lean his forehead on his hand, wincing as he bumped the bruise. Feliks noticed the flinch, and gave him an inquisitive stare. "How'd you get that?"

He leaned over and poked gently at the mottled skin. Toris was startled yet again by the physical intimacy. He stared back at Feliks, gesturing to the scar on the side of his face. "How'd you get that?"

Feliks shrank back, stiffening up, and Toris groaned internally. It seemed that every time he thought the Pole had finally opened up, he would screw up and send the strange young man back into his shell. Feliks glared warily. "That's, like, totally personal."

Toris gestured towards his own injury, hesitant, but seeing an opportunity to solve one of Feliks's most irritating mysteries. "As is this."

Feliks sat in silence, biting his lip as his caution and curiosity warred. Finally, he extended his pinky to Toris, still eyeing him with caution. "I pinky-promise I'll tell you if you'll tell me."

Eagerly, Toris extended the appropriate digit and shook. He didn't know which was more electric, the contact or the anticipation coursing through his veins.

"I told you 'bout my dad, right?"

"In very vague terms."

Feliks shrugged, an overemphasized display of nonchalance that attempted to offset his obvious discomfort. "Well, he was a dick. Drunkard, ya know? Poor as all getup and world-weary to boot. Well, anyway, he hated me. Hated my mom too. Blamed her for his faggot son. So, one night, he's wasted, rampaging through the house, and he finds an old sketchbook. One of my old sketchbooks. All the sparkles and tassels didn't sit well with him, and he goes at it with a pair of scissors. Snip, snip and shit."

He paused for breath, trying to seem as casual as possible under the weight of the story he was telling. Toris watched him, with pity-filled eyes.

"Then, he comes at me with the scissors. " He ran a finger over his pink scar. "That's how this happened." He paused yet again. "So I run, lock myself in a closet, and that's about when the cops showed. My mom called 'em."

Feliks gave up any semblance of stoicism and curled in upon himself, gripping his knees. "When they finished questioning us and let us go home, my mom handed me dad's credit card, some jewelry, and what was left of the sketchbook and told me to go. So, I did."

He laughed, an angry, choked sound. "Happy 18th birthday to me."

He turned towards Toris, his eyes burning. "Your turn." His voice was high and cold and raw with the bitterness of his story.

Toris looked at his feet and began. "I've really never told you what my job is, have I?"

"Nope."

"I never really asked to do this, but a lovely young lady in my fencing course befriended me. She was strange, but I sensed some kindness there, and, when she asked me if I wanted to meet a friend, I didn't hesitate. She brought me to Ivan, and he made me an offer: a nice apartment, cars, suits, food, whatever I needed in exchange for doing whatever he said. Now, being a dumb, terrified 17 year old with no clue what he's doing in life, I said yes."

He exhaled, and Feliks leaned forward, gesturing for him to continue. "He spoiled me, at first. He still does, to an extent. It wasn't so bad. I was pretty much just a toy."

Feliks looked sick, blanching as his mind raced to places Toris had never intended for it to go.

"No, no, nothing like that! He mostly just had me talk to him, or spar with Natalya for his amusement. We used knives, not foils. Then, the illegal stuff started, like I knew it would. He had me run around as his little errand boy, collecting extortion fees, delivering messages, the whole nine yards. I felt bad, taking people's money, but it wasn't until the end of the month that I realized how deep I was in. I saw him kill a man. Panicked, I tried to quit. He kicked me, and broke two of my ribs. Eduard patched me up, but Ivan had found his true use for me. Now, whenever he's in a bad mood, he takes it out on me."

He paused again, and flexed his biceps, giving Feliks a weak, wobbly smile. "It's okay, though. I can take it. Anyway, I asked for this one."

They sat there, examining each other under the stark lamplight, pegging stories to scars as the compared themselves. Finally, Feliks spoke, gesturing to Toris's bruise. "I take it you asked your boss to pardon me."

Toris chuckled wryly. "How did you guess?"

Feliks shrugged. "We're kind of similar in that sense."

Toris lay down, emotions drained. "We've got 13 more days."

"We're so fucked."

Once again, silence fell, and they both breathed slowly in sync. "When…when they come for me, will you warn me? Just to, ya know, give me a head start."

Toris stood up, surprisingly upset by the hopelessness in Feliks's voice. "No, because I won't need to. I'll come up with something."

Feliks grabbed his shirtsleeve, and yanked him back down to the couch. "Thanks. Thanks for everything."

He looked over, and felt the breath leave his body all at once; Feliks was smiling. Not smirking, or pouting, or laughing, but just smiling, and it was beautiful. He seemed to glow from within, brighter than streetlamps or storefronts or stars. Toris knew, then and there, that he would do anything to keep that smile safe.

* * *

Thank you, all of my subscribers and reviewers, and sorry for the epic lateness of this chapter. Life did everything in its power to pry away all of my free time. Also, Chapter one is now Beta'd, and a lot better!

Anyway, thank you to all you (and there are a lot of you) who favorite, subscribed, or reviewed. Thank you also to George deValier for answering all of my dumb mafia-related (and non-mafia-related) questions, and Stranger, for making my dull little fic shine.

Now, I'll take this opportunity to pimp out my Tumblr of the same name (fanningfireflies) where I post each chapter update and, once the series takes off, update schedules. Reviews convince more people to read this thing!

-fanningfireflies


	3. To See the Gloom

Toris glared blearily at his iPhone, wondering why the hell Feliks would not stop texting him at four in the morning. Slowly, he began to root through the messages cluttering his screen.

_yo_

_yoooooooo!_

_u there?_

_w/ever just gonna tell you ive got 10000 + 5000 from u. still need 15000._

Not wanting to text when his eyes were still adjusting to the screen's light, he punched in Feliks's number. Feliks picked up after only two rings. "Toris? Hey Toris!"

Even at this godforsaken hour, Feliks's voice made Toris smile. "Yeah?"

"So you, like, got my messages."

He pinched himself, trying to wake up. "Yep."

"Any ideas?"

"…No."

A crackly sigh sounded through the phone. "Great! Six more days, and no cash in sight. What do you usually do?"

"Usually, nothing. Remember your special status?"

"I know that! I just want to know how other debtors get their cash." Toris could practically see the sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Their fees are substantially lower than yours, so even if they don't have the money, they can get a loan. We know you can't do that, because the store's already in debt. If the worst comes to the worst, they skim some tax money, which almost always results in arrest."

Feliks snorted. "I swear, the only time the cops do shit is when someone takes their money. Just, like, get off your asses and arrest some crooks, guys!" He paused, realization dawning on him. "Not you, of course. Sorry, sometimes I forget you're technically a criminal. "

"I'm glad you're able to make that mistake."

Feliks chuckled nervously. "So…Toris."

Toris froze, noticing the grim tone Feliks's voice had taken on. "Yes?"

"If we don't, ya know, make it, it was nice knowing you. And you tried your best, so don't blame yourself." His voice quavered. "That's really all I had to say. Thanks."

He hung up before Toris had a chance to speak, leaving him staring at the phone clenched in his fist, the full reality of his situation crashing down on him.

He imagined Feliks's radiant smile, imagined putting a gun to it and pulling the trigger and seeing his eyes go dull and- oh God-the blood…he felt ill. Here was someone whom Toris could call a friend, someone who-while far from perfect-somehow managed to make his life a bit brighter, and Ivan had to stick his bulbous nose in it and ruin everything.

He groaned. Ivan wouldn't send Natalya, Gilbert or Liz to finish the job. No, he would make Toris do it himself. The sick, sadistic bastard probably knew all about him helping Feliks, probably got his jollies imagining destroying the both of them.

Breathing slowly in and out, Toris calmed himself. Rarely was Ivan deliberately sadistic or scheming; his head was far too screwed up to plan out something so elaborately manipulative. Still, the task of exterminating Feliks would be assigned to Toris out of simplicity.

Still, he was furious. He wanted to make Ivan look Feliks dead in the green gems he called eyes, see his scars, hear his stories, and watch the muses pour themselves out through his pencils. He wanted Ivan to hear him laugh, to be caught up in Feliks and, then, only then, see if he could put a bullet between his eyes over 15,000 rubles.

Anger abruptly replaced by despair, Toris sighed and cradled his head in his hands. If Feliks died, a part of Toris would die as well, and leave him hollow and empty. He pinched his brows together and paced around the room, trying to figure out how he could obtain the money.

Almost all legal options were promptly eliminated; there was no way he could get a decent job in six days, and he owned nothing of valuable he could sell without it coming under Ivan's notice. His mind turned to the infinitely more familiar underworld. He was far too plain to be a successful prostitute, and Ivan monitored the whole market. Robbery was out of the question; even if he stole from crooks, they'd report it and he'd have the cops on his tail, and Ivan wouldn't bail him out. No matter what he thought of, Ivan was there, blocking his path.

He flopped back down on the bed with a miserable sigh; he wished Ivan was a more forgiving person. He had so much money. 15,000 rubles couldn't matter that much, could it? Surely not enough to end a man's life.

Slowly, an idea bubbled to the surface of his groggy mind. It was absurd, and dangerous, and so unexpected it just might work. He'd probably be caught, but what's the worst Ivan could do to him? Kill him and Feliks both? That was no worse than the fate awaiting the two of them should the money never come.

His limbs shook with the sheer treachery of the thought. He'd never so much as raised a finger to Ivan other than to refuse killing missions. He'd swallowed beatings and absurd orders with naught more than a meek 'Yes, sir.' Looking back, he was ashamed he hadn't grown a spine up until now.

With trembling, sweating fingers, he grasped his phone and selected a familiar number. Unlike before, the phone rang six times and almost went to voicemail before Eduard picked up. "Hello, Toris. I'd say good morning, except it's clearly not. Why in the name of all things supposedly holy are you calling me at this ungodly hour."

"I'm so sorry, Eduard, but it's urgent. Is there any way we could meet up and discuss something? In private?"

Eduard didn't respond, and Toris continued breathily. ""Look, I know it's early, but I'd rather not discuss this over the phone. Please?"

Toris could hear him groan into the phone. "Fine, come on over. You'd better bring me coffee and a bagel, though."

"I will! Thank you."

Eduard hung up.

During off hours, Toris noted, the metro was a hollowed-out place, filled with hollowed-out people. It was raining, and his shoes made squeaking noises that echoed throughout the vast terminals and caused the few people awake to glare at him over their scarves. When the train arrived, he actually managed to grab a seat. He glanced around at his fellow commuters.

There were only three other people in his train car. An elderly man with the scruffy start of a beard alternated between glaring at his watch and the list of stops above the door, while a dozing thirty-something whispered gibberish through cracked lips. The only one who paid Toris's examination any attention was an Asian girl with a tight ponytail and smudged makeup. Though there were plenty of empty seats, she stood, presumably because her skirt was too short to allow otherwise. She glared at Toris from under crusted mascara, no doubt expecting him to comment on her scant attire, but standing straight nonetheless. He looked away from her bitter amber gaze, not wanting conflict.

After making sure that the other passengers weren't sporting any weapons, Toris started to think. He was about to double-cross the most powerful person in Moscow for a man he had met less than a month ago. Chances are he would wind up dead. Yet there was no sweat on his brow, his breathing was regular, and his mind was clear. He'd accepted his fate. Maybe his actions were pointless, but he found he didn't care. He was a pleasant kind of numb, and he could find no argument compelling enough to make himself stop. He grinned.

The train slid smoothly to a stop, and he departed. Though there was no one to bump into or breathe on, he still tried to hold his breath until he reached the outside.

Moments later, he stood in front of Eduard's apartment, raincoat dripping, clutching a paper bag and two coffees. After the third bout of knocking, Eduard, still pajama-clad, answered. The apartment looked the same as Toris remembered, with grey walls and Grey gadgets and a grey carpet. Underneath the carpet, the floor was probably grey as well. Wordlessly, he ushered Toris in, snatched away the wet jacket, flung it onto the coat hanger, and marched to the kitchen. Toris followed suit, sitting down at the small table in the center of the room.

Eduard gestured for the coffee, and drank deeply. Toris watched, unsettled, as he was every time he spoke to Eduard, by the way his glasses cast a shadowy reflection of the observer over his eyes, so that when Toris went to look into them, he saw not just Eduard but himself staring back. . As though he felt Toris's gaze on him, Eduard's eyes flashed up, and stared straight into Toris's. Eduard, despite being one of Toris's closest friends, always left him a little uncomfortable. "Now, Toris, why are you here?"

Toris glanced away from his blue gaze, wondering if this was how Feliks always felt. "You remember when I took the fall for Raivis during the February incident?"

Eduard nodded. "How could I forget?"

'Well, you remember you owed me a favor?"

Again, Eduard nodded, squinting suspiciously. "I take it you're here to cash in on that favor." When Toris didn't respond, he continued. "Well, out with it. What do you want?"

Toris took a deep breath, sat up straight, closed his eyes, and began. "You know that boutique, _The Phoenix Nest_? The one with all the debt? Well, for reasons I don't fully understand, the owner and I wound up becoming friends, and I'm helping him meet that debt. We've got all but 15,000 rubles, and…"

Eduard remained impassive. "I see where you're going with this. Whose bank account are you looking for me to hack? Because bank accounts are a big deal, and I value my life, thank you very much."

Toris rubbed his neck and kept his eyes fixed firmly on the table. "Ivan's"

Before Eduard could get a word in edgewise, Toris raised a hand to silence him. "Just…here me out, okay? We'll take the money from one of Ivan's stashes. The cops would love to pin anything on him, so if he reports the loss from one of the bank accounts he claims not to have the cops will get even more suspicious, and maybe start asking exactly where these vast sums come from. They might smell a major breakthrough, one not even bribes can put them off of. They might find some of the American accounts. He wouldn't want to risk his American accounts. Since he won't call the cops, he'll put Natalya on the case. She's too blinded by her loyalty to Ivan to even contemplate that he trusts a traitor. Ivan himself will just think we're a couple of dunderfucks who let a rival slip behind our backs. If he comes after you, I'll take full responsibility and blame it on an error of mine. All you need to do is withdraw the 15,000 rubles."

Toris panted, out of breath, and wished he was as confident in his plan as he sounded. He watched Eduard's face twitch as he turned over the idea in his mind, probing Toris's argument for faults. Eduard sipped from his coffee, and grimaced as though noticing the bitter taste for the first time. He got up, and opened a cabinet. With mechanic precision, he selected a sugar packet, returned to the table, shook it twice, and tore the packet open. "Fine. But not because you've convinced me I'll be safe."

"Why, then?"

Eduard emptied the pack and gave his coffee a quick stir. "Because everyone needs to rebel a little."

He downed the remainder of his coffee, and reached for the bagel. "Is it buttered?"

"No."

He got up again and went to the fridge, returning with a stick of butter. "Anything else I ought to know?"

Toris watched the knife cut exactly along the one-teaspoon mark. "I want it in cash. Account transfers are easy to trace."

Eduard divided the slice of butter in half and began spreading methodically. "I assumed as much. I can have the money for you in three days, since I won't have anyone withdraw it all at once. I'll have several people arrive over the days and drain it away."

Toris nodded. "Good idea."

Eduard bit into his bagel, not offering Toris any. "If you need anything else, or want to inform me of any new developments, I'll be in my office at Ivan's."

"Okay, got it."

They sat there in the grey room, the only light the grey sun, the only sound Eduard's rhythmic chewing. Toris couldn't help but notice that Eduard chewed each bite exactly seven times. When Eduard finished eating, they parted with a handshake and matching smirks.

Out in the rain yet again, Toris thought about his plan, and about his chances of success. Maybe it'd work for a month, maybe a year, but eventually Ivan would catch him. Brushing dripping hair out of his eyes, he raised his hand to the scar between his ribs. Ivan always won.

As he slogged towards the metro, his phone buzzed. Casting his hood aside, Toris smiled into the pouring rain and answered his phone. "Hey Feliks."

* * *

Three days later a manila envelope, accompanied by a trembling Raivis, wormed its way into Toris's apartment. He didn't even need to check its contents; Eduard never went back on his word. Smiling warmly, he put the money on his counter and went to thank Raivis.

When Toris shook the boy's hand, he could feel his hands shake and his pulse leap as though trying desperately to break free. His eyes darted every which way, not like Feliks's calculated avoidance but like those of a cornered animal: wide, bloodshot, and terrified.

As he watched Raivis scurry away, he wondered when he'd started comparing everyone to Feliks. Shrugging it off, he sat down and began moving the stacks of bills to an envelope without Eduard's writing on it. In the end, it took two envelopes to hold it all, and he clutched at the white paper like a lifeline. In a way, he supposed that it was.

He crammed the envelopes into the pockets of his coat and whipped out his phone, pacing around his kitchen table as he selected Feliks's number. Feliks answered after only one ring and-though his voice was bordering on frantic- the weight of the envelopes seemed to fall away at the sound of it. "Hello? Toris?"

"Hi, Feliks."

Immediately, Feliks launched into a panicked spiel, losing coherency as he continued. "So we've only got, like, three more days and this's been a slow week, so I've stopped eating but there's still not, like, enough and I'm sorry I'm so fucked and, God, even though it's getting colder I've turned off the heat and I still don't have enough and I think the cold might be scaring away the customers and I'm wearing two sweaters and look really fat and I'm, like, totally scaring away customers by looking so terrible, and…"

Despite their hellish situation, and the twinge of pain Feliks's suffering caused, Toris wanted to laugh. "Okay. Feliks, Breathe. When can I be over?"

"Um, it's a slow day, so whenever."

"Alright, I'll be there soon."

Still shaky, Feliks replied. "Alright."

"Good."

Before hanging up, he added one more thought. "Oh, and Feliks…"

"Yeah?"

"Turn your heat back on."

The sky was grey, the metro full and he strode towards Feliks's store with a sense of cheerful fatalism, as though the world was ending and he was looking his maker in the eye and laughing until tears came. The two envelopes hung heavy in polyester pockets and Toris felt as though everyone could somehow see them and knew how he'd gotten them. By the time he arrived at _The Phoenix Nest_ he was a paranoid wreck, staring down passerby and glancing constantly over his shoulder.

Toris entered, brushing by a departing twenty-something swinging a single bag of merchandise. Feliks didn't glance up, but waved him over to the cash register where he was counting out bills, slapping them haphazardly onto the table in lopsided stacks. Despite Toris's request, Feliks still wore two sweaters, the baggy fabric hanging off his frame in such a way to make his thin figure look downright emaciated. "I thought I said you could turn the heat on."

Feliks looked up, and now his eyes bore a distinct resemblance to Raivis's, twitching to and fro with unadulterated terror. "Look, I know there's no chance for me, but if I have to go down, I'm gonna go down fighting, 'kay? Your boss is an ass, and I'm not gonna surrender. We've got three more days, and white flags are just so dull."

His shoulders quirked upwards, but his eyes burned, and Toris wanted nothing more than to grab him and never let him go, never let anyone see or touch or harm either of them again. Instead, he reached into his pockets and dropped the envelopes on the table as though they'd singed him; equal parts glad to give them to Feliks and glad to get them away from himself.

Feliks peered at them warily, then glanced up at Toris, eyes wide and void of understanding. "Just open them."

And Feliks did, slitting open the envelopes with expert precision. The tightly compressed bills spilled out of the envelopes and onto the counter, some wafting to the floor like paper leaves. Feliks stared, eyes wide as dinner plates, hands frozen at shoulder height as though he had been expecting some eldritch abomination to leap forth from the envelopes and swallow him whole. He shook. "Where…where did you get this?"

Now it was Toris's turn to shirk away from eye contact. "That's a story for another day."

Feliks pressed on, hands slapped in the middle of the pile. "Did you whore yourself out?"

"God no!"

Feliks laughed shakily. "Good."

He raked his fingers through the bills as though trying to make sure they were real. "I promise I'll tell you. Just…not now."

Feliks nodded, eyes still locked on the money. He smiled and glanced up at Toris through his lashes. Toris's breath caught in his throat; Feliks was always beautiful, but when he smiled, he was godlike. Feliks sighed, and the money rippled. Slowly, he raised his head. "Thank you."

Toris stammered, but before he could respond, Feliks closed the inched between them, kissing him full on the mouth. Toris gasped in surprise, but brought his arms around Feliks's waist, pulling him tighter. He had no idea what he was doing, but it felt so right and perfect that even the threat of Ivan didn't scare him.

Feliks smiled into the kiss, and Toris returned it wholeheartedly. Feliks pressed their bodies even tighter together, and Toris couldn't help but notice how perfectly they fit together.

* * *

Notes: Thank you, lovely reviewers, for putting up with my weird absences. I'm hopefully back on track, and adding more to the Mafiaverse! Up next: chapter one of my Spamano fic: Me, Reflected.


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